Fecal Felony: The Real-Life Case of the Second Story Pooper

In the ‘80s and ‘90s, Second Story books was one of seemingly few employment options available to DC punks. The pay was poor and the turnover rate astronomical, but there were upsides. In the back room was a big shelf full of used LPs; because the shop was in a hip neighborhood and people were then replacing their record collections with CDs, the selection was pretty good.

At the close of my very first shift, I hauled a gigantic stack of vinyl up to the front counter, hoping the employee discount would be at least half-decent. It was! Mark Haggerty (Iron Cross, Grey Matter, 3, Severin) was manning the cash register that evening. He stared at me, his expression toggling between pity and annoyance, until I finally caught on. From that day on, my only goal at the bookstore was filling out the gaps in my record collection, and occasionally actually shelving books. Perhaps for obvious reasons, my tenure there would be brief. But try as I might, there is one memory from this time I cannot erase:

First things first: This is an extremely uncool thing to do to minimum-wage book clerks.

But secondly, serious props! Second Story is a physically small space, and the perpetrator’s skill and élan are to be commended. How did they pull it off? What was the inspiration? And…who was it?

Sadly, as of this writing, no answers are forthcoming. To paraphrase Spinal Tap guitarist Nigel Tufnel, “You can’t really dust for shit.” Like so many mysteries, it would’ve remained buried were it not for the efforts of one man: J. Hunter Bennett.

In the early days of COVID, as we all struggled to stay sane and also not die, Hunter—author of The Prodigal Rogerson and Upside-Down Punks—had a vision. He started a little free punk rock bookstore in Chevy Chase, D.C., and began publishing a companion newsletter. And when he asked if I could write something on the intersection of DC punk and noir, I jumped at the chance.

Tragically, the newsletter folded after Hunter published the first installment (cause/effect? possibly). At the time, the project was projected to take the form of a brief (and obviously superficial) 170-part exposé on the crime spree. But I hope this first installment, included in its entirety below, gives you a feel for the monumental potential of the series, one of the great untold crime stories of the last 50 years and a vital chapter in the story of the DC punk scene….

It was a Sunday night, quiet as a crypt. Outside the grimy office window, a pitiless rain streamed down the side of the light well. So much for “city views.” I was reaching for the flask in my desk drawer when the phone rang. I glanced at the clock; quarter to eight.

“Dash Denson, private ey…”

I was cut off by a voice like a rubber chicken being stepped on.

“Detective, you gotta come down here quick! He’s done it again!”

“All right, champ, cool it,” I growled. “Where’s here? And who’s he?”

The voice took a deep breath. “Second Story Books, off Dupont Circle. And, it’s…it’s him. You know.”

It was only later that I clocked what a neat trick it was: Planting it just before quitting time so the coroner wouldn’t get his mitts on it before morning. Like everything else about this little caper: Smooth.

I sighed. Hunting down some freak on a rainy night wasn’t exactly my cup of tea. But let’s face it: With alimony and the note on my secondhand jalopy past due, I wasn’t exactly in a position to turn down paying work. And ever since the first time I’d gone to the bookstore, when I saw what he’d done there, well…. Call it professional curiosity, but I wanted to know what made him tick.

“All right,” I purred. “I’m on the way. Rope it off, and for God’s sake: Don’t get any footprints in it this time.”

“Oh, thank you, thank y…” said the voice. I hung up before he could finish groveling.

“Malone,” I barked. “We got a warm one. Grab the camera and some thick gloves!”

Dingus Malone lurched to his feet, sloshing most of the coffee in his mug onto the surface of his desk.

“Oh! I…are we…is this a…?”

I sighed. Malone was my apprentice, supposedly; I wasn’t sure he was ready for this. But you don’t really get to pick ‘em, not in this line of work. We were both about to find out what kind of stuff he was made of.

“Come on, let’s hoof it,” I said, nodding towards the door. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

The front door was locked, allowing the downpour to halfway soak through my trench coat. Finally, the clerk appeared.

“Oh, thank god you’re here! Gives me the creeps, this does.” Frankly, he gave me the creeps: Thin froggy lips, wire-rimmed spectacles, a hairline that began retreating during the Hoover administration. Typical bookstore lifer.

“Okay, okay. Just show me where it is.”

“It’s…it’s over there.” He pointed to the back of the store. “Past World History, then to the right.”

I sighed. “Come on, Malone.”

I smelled it before I saw it. Bracing myself, I peered around the shelf. There it was, by god. He’d done it again, right there in the middle of the aisle: A real corker. My stomach gave a lurch, and instinctively I reached for my flask.

I remembered my very first week on the job, when Wiley Sinkewicz showed me the ropes. When I was just as green as Malone. “Don’t get emotional about it,” Wiley’d said. “You’re gonna see a lotta stuff that’ll keep you up at night.”

It was good advice, and I’ve tried to live up to it ever since. But this case had its hooks in me, no doubt about it. Seeing what this creep had done, right in the open, where anyone could just walk right into it.… Well, it just got to me.

“Welcome to the big boys’ club, Malone,” I said. But Malone couldn’t hear me, because he lay in a dead heap behind me. He’d fainted the second he caught sight of the thing.

I sighed, and uncorked the flask. No two ways about it: I wasn’t going to rest till I’d nabbed the Second Story Pooper.

This story also appears in More Punk Than the Public Library: The Adventures of a Little Free Punk Rock Bookstore, published May 12, 2026.